


Experiments in Spontaneity

by Thistlerose



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-16
Updated: 2010-06-16
Packaged: 2017-10-10 03:53:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/95180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlerose/pseuds/Thistlerose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is still learning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Experiments in Spontaneity

Nyota was under the impression that he did not fully understand the concept of spontaneity. Spock could not say why this troubled him exactly, or why, the night after their kiss beneath the boughs of the jumja tree in the botanical garden, he'd sat awake meditating on her words and the way she'd laughed when he'd attempted to explain his actions.

She was incorrect, of course. Spock understood the word's meaning and etymology. He also understood that, as far as desired traits went, spontaneity was a distinctly human one. There was very little that Vulcans did without thinking, and those things they did do … were not things about which they preferred to think. Sometimes they thought very _quickly_, but their actions were guided by logic and reason, not impulse.

Nevertheless, by the time he'd fallen asleep that night, he'd resolved to give the appearance of being spontaneous, at least with Nyota. Not to prove anything to her, but because … her reaction to his kiss in the botanical garden had been most pleasant. Afterward, as he had walked her back to her dormitory, she'd linked her arm with his. The scent of her perfume – jasmine – still lingered on his winter coat. That too was … most pleasant.

So, the next day – which was as cold and gray as the one before it – Spock brewed a thermos full of Vulcan mocha and set out for the lecture hall, the frost-covered grass crunching beneath his boots. He arrived early, as usual, and settled into the chair in his office. He spent the next half hour scanning his lecture notes, making small changes with his stylus.

When Nyota arrived fifteen minutes before the start of class, he looked up from his PADD and offered her a polite "Good morning." As she peeled off her mittens and unbuttoned her woolen coat, he indicated the as-yet-untouched thermos and the two mugs he'd set by it when he'd first arrived.

"What's this?" she asked, lowering herself with a casual grace into the chair opposite his.

Cocking an eyebrow, he said, "I should think that any first-year cadet would recognize—"

"I know what it _is_," she said. "But why two mugs?"

She knew, of course. She was extremely perceptive, but she liked to hear him articulate his intentions and his meanings. She had told him that it was because hearing English spoken _well_ was so refreshing, though after their first date she had admitted that it was also because she enjoyed the sound of his voice.

So he said - _without_ rolling his eyes, which he might have done, had any one of his other students asked so obvious a question – "I thought – that is, as I was leaving my quarters, it occurred to me that I had made entirely too much mocha."

"Mocha?" said Nyota, her voice rippling with amusement.

"Prepared in the Vulcan way," he elaborated. "As I brewed a greater quantity than I will likely feel inclined to drink, I brought two mugs with the hope that you might share some with me."

"Oh, Spock," she said as he unscrewed the thermos cap and the richly spiced aroma filled the small office. "How thoughtful!"

_No_, he wanted to say, _there was, in fact, very little thought involved._ But prevaricating, he decided, would serve no purpose. And anyway, she was smiling and leaning closer. A true explanation of his motivation was unnecessary.

*

Nonetheless, over the next several days, he made a couple more attempts at spontaneity. While none of his efforts could be deemed an unequivocal success – he spent, in his estimation, entirely too much time considering his actions – Nyota seemed quite pleased. She enjoyed the book of Vulcan narrative verse, as well as the pimalia blossom he'd clipped from the tree in the greenhouse and tucked into the cover. Two days later, when he informed her that he had rented a car so that they might drive along the coast that evening, her delight was unfeigned.

The drive was quite pleasant, as was their subsequent walk along the beach. The temperature dropped as the sun set, but the clouds that had choked the sky for the past week had mostly cleared. Those few that remained were mere wisps of magenta and lavender, and the waves gleamed in the dying light.

Nyota walked along the sand beside him, her hands in her pockets, her face turned toward the water. The wind gathered her hair and blew it back from her neck. Spock had intended to study the tide pools as long as they were there; since Vulcan had no moons and therefore no tides, he found the tiny ecosystems rather interesting. However, he soon decided that the kelp beds were far less captivating than the graceful curves of the woman beside him, and when the wind blew her hair against his chest in ribbons of black silk, well…

When it was fully dark and too cold to remain on the beach any longer, he drove her back to campus. He would have walked her to her dorm, but she shook her head and clasped his hand between her two mittened ones. So they went to his living quarters, and when they were inside and he was unwinding his scarf, she said, "Look, you've obviously put a great deal of thought into this week and I've…"

_No,_ he wanted to say, _I was being spontaneous_, even though he knew that he had not been.

But she went on, "…been thinking all day about something I've been wanting to do for … well, for a while."

By then, she had removed her mittens, scarf, and coat, and was standing in his hallway in her sweater and pants. She lowered her lashes for a moment and smiled shyly. Then slowly, almost as if she didn't want to alarm him, she pulled the sweater over her head and let it slide to the floor.

He said nothing. He was drinking in the sight of her. Though a flush had crept up her cheeks, she was obviously still cold, as evinced by the gooseflesh on her arms and the tautness of her nipples through her lace bra. His instinct, his _impulse_ was to strip as quickly as possible and touch every part of her with his lips and warm palms.

She stepped closer, put her hands on his hips, and tilted her head back. "Don't think," she murmured, her lips brushing his.

And suddenly he could not.

10/27/2009


End file.
